Counterpoint
by CottageGhost
Summary: Companion piece to With the Flow. More streamofconsciousness, sensory musings this time, from Carolyn's POV.


**_Counterpoint_******

****

            He's humming again.

            I don't think he even realizes how much he does it. He has a gorgeous voice, deep, faintly rumbling. It's quite comforting, actually. Reassuring. He also has a definite penchant for old Irish ballads. I caught him singing a few of them while I was standing by the alcove window, pulling out the weeds along the foundation. But he generally hums them to himself while he reads over my shoulder, or while he works on his sea charts. _Especially_ while he works on his sea charts.

            I was fortunate enough to hear him singing to the kids a few times. On those precious nights, when they were much too keyed up to listen to one of his stories, he elected to sing them a lullaby instead, and in Gaelic, no less. As I listened, his voice grew softer, gentler, more lilting, those magical words just rolling off his tongue effortlessly, putting my two treasures to sleep in short order.

            He's such a wonderful storyteller as well. So was my father, now that I think of it. Still is. I remember, clear as day, lying in bed, the covers up to my chin, Dad sitting next to me and regaling me with incredible adventures, whether real or imagined. Sometimes, he would even get right under the covers with me, holding me protectively as he wove his tales. I guess that's why he enjoys it so much when Candy and Jonathan insist on tucking him in whenever he comes to visit.

            I once asked what it was like to be on the deck of a ship. After he had me join him on the widow's walk and close my eyes, he proceeded to describe the experience to me. In his voice, I heard the song of the wind and the lure of the sea, and for one brilliant moment – I was there. I could practically feel the spray on my face and taste the salt on my tongue. I came back to myself as his voice – and the rest of him – faded into nothingness, leaving me to contemplate what had just happened in the ensuing silence.

            Ironically enough, silence – which I now treasure – is something I dreaded as a child. I'm not sure why. I remember feeling instantly better the moment my mother started humming to herself, whether it was while cooking, mending clothes or walking in the park. Funny; I hadn't thought about that until just now. I guess it's a habit that's rubbed off on me. I wonder if he's noticed it?

            Speaking of humming – there he goes, humming again.

********************

            I love the smell of things after a thunderstorm.

            It's only drizzling now, the sun occasionally peeking through the clouds. But the air is thick with the smell of growing things, living things – dying things. It smells fresh and clean, as if the rain has rid it of all that was weighing it down.

            I wonder what the air smells like on the open sea? I've often tried to imagine it, but I'm sure I'm not doing it justice. What must it smell like, to be so far away from land, from people – from life?

            I've always loved the smell of damp soil and dripping leaves after rainfall. I remember sitting on the porch swing with my mother as the rain tapered off, the two of us silently filling our lungs with clean, fresh air, smelling life on the breeze. Oh, it was nothing compared to the way the air smells here, but for some reason, that's a memory that's stayed with me to this day.

            Strange; I could actually smell the storm coming. Heavens; Harriet would have me committed if she heard me say that. But I did smell it. I'd never been able to do that until I came here. I had never smelled the heaviness in the air, air that was so saturated with moisture that every intake of breath felt like inhaling water.

            He can tell the most incredible things from the merest breath of wind. I've heard him, countless times, making predictions about the weather that were in direct contradiction with the forecast. And most every time, he would be right. When I wondered at it, he simply smiled and said, as if it were self-evident, that he had smelled the change on the wind.

            I love the smell of him. Well, strictly speaking, it's not his smell so much as that of his cigar, or better still, that of his pipe. I find it comforting, somehow. Maybe it has something to do with my grandfather? Or is it Uncle Arnold? I can't remember the face, but I distinctly remember sitting on someone's knees and feeling strangely drawn to the smell that accompanied the slow, lazy swirls of smoke rising toward the ceiling.

            He hasn't lighted it in some time.

            The rain has stopped. A small puff of wind rustles the leaves, shaking the clinging droplets off their surface, carrying with it a hint of sulphur and burning tobacco.

            Hmmm. I love the smell of things after a thunderstorm.

********************

            There's nothing like the taste of fresh coffee.

            Although freshly baked apple-caramel pie comes close. Martha's is a marvel for the palate, but first prize has to go to my Aunt Gertrude's. It was, quite literally, a slice of heaven she served on our plates whenever she made it. I'll never forget the first time I had it: it was on the day my grandmother was buried. After the ceremony and the burial, the family got together at Granny's house and the adults chatted and ate. When I asked my mother why everybody was so quiet and so sad, she smiled at me, her eyes suddenly bright, then served me a slice of Aunt Gertrude's pie and told me not to worry about it. To this day, much as I like the treat, I can't help but look at it with mixed emotions.

            He's a major tea drinker. He told me it was probably because he practically grew up on it. While he still lived with his aunt, she thought him too young to drink coffee, and while at sea, he and his men often had to do without. So tea it was. I don't mind a cup of it once in a while, but I've never developed for it the passion I have for coffee.

            I think I'm finally getting used to the taste of Madeira. I still blush when I think how I nearly choked on it the first time I had it. How embarrassing that would have been! No, I think I can safely say I'm beginning to enjoy it, even though I doubt I'll ever enjoy it as much as champagne. He seems to like that well enough, but I don't think it's his drink of choice. He does seem partial to brandy, however; I don't know how many times I found a snifter of it in the attic, the lingering smell of cigar or pipe smoke never far behind.

            Martha's cookies is something else he seems to be partial to – though I suspect he'd rather die all over again than admit it. Oh, he's careful about not leaving traces of his theft, but he doesn't always manage to hide the evidence. And mortal I may be, but my hearing still knows the sound of a cookie jar being broken into when it hears it.

            Now all this thinking about food has made me hungry. I wonder if there are any of those cookies left?

********************

            There's a full moon out tonight.

            I always enjoy this view from the balcony at night: the velvety darkness of the sky, awash with stars, and the ink black expanse of the bay, now made silvery by the moon's glow.

            He doesn't seem to be out, tonight. That's too bad; I love watching the night sky with him. He has no idea how magnificent he looks by moonlight: the blondish highlights in his hair come out like golden threads, his tan skin grows silvery and his bottomless blue eyes shine with an eerie glow. He's like a guardian angel, a fleeting, heavenly messenger sent down to protect us mere mortals.

            As far as I can remember, I've always loved looking up at the starry sky. I loved doing it as a child, I loved doing it in college – and I still loved doing it after the kids were born. I remember, on warm summer nights, bundling up Candy against the slightly cooler air and sitting with her on the back porch of our house in Philadelphia to look up at the sky. Of course, being in the city, it was slim pickings at the best of times. But what there was to see always had a strangely calming effect on me – as if sitting under so much infinity made all of life's little wounds insignificant. For as long as he knew me, Bobby never understood – or shared – my fascination for the heavens. Oh, he never said anything. But I sometimes got the distinct impression that he disapproved of it – or, at least, that he disapproved of my taking the kids out with me. I never brought it up, and I regret not doing so. Because of that, to this day, I feel a little pang of guilt every time I stand here, my cheek against the polished wood of the wheel, to gaze up at the stars and the moon.

            He once told me that the night sky at sea was a marvel to behold. It must be incredible to look up into a sky so full of stars that it's almost impossible to pick out the patterns you've come to know so well on land. It's already difficult enough for me to keep from reaching out to grab them here; what must it be like to look up into a sky unmarred by light of any kind, in a place where the rest of the world seems but a distant dream?

            I feel the hair on the back of my neck standing up. He's near. I turn towards the widow's walk, knowing with utter certainty that he is there. I signal to him to join me. Sure enough, a breath later, he appears next to me, my guardian angel, my heavenly messenger, sent down to protect me. He smiles gently at me before we both silently turn our eyes to the velvety darkness of the sky, awash with stars, and the ink black expanse of the bay, now made silvery by the moon's glow.

********************

            I love the feel of paper under my fingers.

            I usually type whatever story I'm working on, but now and then, I like to do it the old fashioned way: me, a pad and a pencil against the world. I don't know; it makes it feel more – more – creative, I guess. Stupid, I know. But I always get an extra measure of contentment from setting down my thoughts and ideas on paper by hand. To actually be in contact with it, then to feel its newly acquired heaviness, as if my imagination had suddenly taken on physical form and settled itself on the paper, weighing it down.

            The page I'm holding now is typed. It's from his memoirs, so these are his words, his thoughts, his ideas. It doesn't feel the same as a hand-written page, but there's still a heaviness about it. Like a little piece of him has taken on physical form and settled itself on the page, weighing it down.

            Can he still feel things around him, or has touch completely eluded him? There he is, standing as he often does on the balcony, hands in his pockets, his eyes closed, his face slightly upturned as if seeking the caress of the wind or the warmth of the sun.

            Does he still remember what it felt like to dig into the living earth to prepare a home for his monkey-puzzle tree? Can he remember the weight of the damp soil in his hands, the grittiness of the dirt under his fingernails? Is that why he was so hurt when I had his tree cut down – because I wasn't only taking something away from him that had obviously been a labour of love, but also the very memory of what life had felt like when he planted that tree?

            I hear the paper crumpling between my tightening fingers. I would sell my soul for one chance to touch the hand of the man I love, draw my arm in his – touch his lips with mine.

            I force my fingers to uncurl and smooth the creases out of the paper, feeling my pent up anguish ebbing away with each stroke.

            I may not be able to touch him; but I have touched his heart and his soul.

            And for now, it has to be enough.


End file.
